The Pot, The Farm and The Duke

The Barn was set for music.

It may sound like a mystery novel, but it’s hardly that. It’s food, ambiance, and music emphasizing a full dose of music and musicianship.

We started our evening at the Lobster Pot in Bristol, the reliable, hospitable local restaurant. When I am at The Pot, I am on a cruise ship; the shimmering water views are calming, comfortable, and mesmerizing. Everything about it is welcoming, the people the views, and above all the food.

Peter, Sara, Diane, and I were excited, not only to be at The Pot but also to anticipate the music in another place loaded with ambiance, The Barn at Mount Hope Farm.

Dating to 1860, it is one of the oldest buildings on The Farm. Charming open space with a tall ceiling, and varnished wood floors, it can host almost any kind of event, but this evening it was transformed for music, music, magic music in a magic place. Delightful. And the house was packed. Why?

Well, because of The Duke, Duke Robillard, the impresario.

We’ve followed Duke Robillard since his days with Roomful of Blues, the band he founded with pianist Al Copley in Westerly, R.I., in 1967. By adding horns, Roomful announced itself emphatically as the prototypical jump blues band. The Band became a New England legend and a fixture beyond, as did Duke.

The Barn was set for music. Enthusiasm. Snacks. Drinks by Two Gals Cocktails. Packed house.

I sat ignoring the buzz of the crowd but rather looking at the instruments ahead of me. Tucked neatly along the side were the bass, drums and guitar, all eagerly awaiting the musicians, almost as anticipatory as the audience.

They were gleaming, looked nurtured, hardware polished, worn in the heavily played spots, a bow ready, drums positioned, cymbals tipped, drumsticks laying on the snare, seats adjusted.

It reminded me of the fleeting days when I was a drummer in junior high school. I looked in my rearview mirror.

In the seventh grade, having never played an instrument, I joined the school band. I was assigned to the cymbals, triangle, and bass drum rather than the snare drum I so coveted. I loved Gene Krupa’s drum solos and wanted to play with his blurring speed. But it was okay, because I was given the chance to perform at school assemblies, and I loved it.

As luck would have it, William lost interest in playing and was selling his snare. Excited, but concerned about the price, I hesitated when I asked Dad if William could come by to show us the drum. Ten dollars was a lot of money in 1952, especially for a drum.

“OK,” Dad said.

William was there when Dad came home from work. Though tired, Dad was patient. William carefully removed the snare from its velvet cover. What a sparkling beauty! Silver metal rims and silver struts with turnkeys supported the taut, thin sheepskin, “tight as a drum.” It came with a stand that cradled the drum in its arms. William set the drum, sat in the chair, and played. His sticks bounced from that skin in a blur and produced the sound of a muffled train rumbling down the tracks; at first soft in the distance, then to intensity high enough for us to feel that train passing through the kitchen.

I could not take my eyes off the drumsticks, and I wondered what the sound would be if William had a bass drum and cymbals. Dad looked at his watch. I thought I heard his stomach growl to the rhythm.

William stopped. He lifted the snare from the stand and replaced it with care into its velvet cover where it was warm and comfortable. He folded the stand, tucked it and the drum under his arm, and left, closing the door softly behind him. He reopened the door.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, “I’ll include da brushes and da sticks.”

As he walked down the stairs, I could hear him say, “Eddie, see ya tamarra. Let me know.”

I looked up at Dad.

“The price seems a little high. Is a snare played alone?”

“No, Dad. I thought I might be able to get a bass drum and a cymbal some other day. Maybe even a second drum if I saved my money. Wally asked me to help him on the paper route this summer.”

“Hmm…a bass, cymbal, and second drum. Where will you practice?”

I looked around our third-floor tenement. Where would I put a set of drums? It would be difficult to muffle drum music from my grandparents one floor below, my aunt two floors below, and the neighbors six feet away. The cellar was too dark and too damp. Did I have time for practice with a paper route, baseball, swimming, and all the other stuff?

“And don’t you have to pay for lessons?”

“Maybe I should wait on the snare.” He nodded.

“There are other things you can do,” he said.

My dream of playing like Gene never came.

When I returned to reality, I saw the set of drums, ready for The Maestro.

Joining Duke were Paul Del Nero on bass, and Marty Richards on drums. As they casually sauntered to their instruments and grasped them, it hardly looked like creativity would come. To say the musicians were cool is a misnomer, but they were cool. Another night at work.

They took their positions. Then came the charge of energy. Blues, traditional jazz, T-Bone Walker, Ellington, swing standards, and more. The audience was captured by Duke’s tenderness of execution with a rigor derived from years of playing with every great, everywhere. Mastery, power, nuance. With a harmonious script, was annexing attention and the audience absorbed it.

Shelly’s last stanza in “To a Skylark”

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

From Duke’s website:

Duke's resume is decorated with Grammy nominations, Handy Awards and Blues Music Awards, and other honors for his artistry, recordings, and productions within the United States and internationally. On his latest release, "Duke Robillard and his Dames of Rhythm" on M.C. Records, he wields an acoustic archtop and joins six thrushes for evocative and enjoyable renditions of 1920s and 1930s swing tunes; it's a worthy successor to his 2016 BMA-winning "The Acoustic Blues And Roots Of Duke Robillard."

Paul Del Nero on bass and Marty Richards on drums were equal to the task, Duke complimenting them often on their solos. At one point Richards, with a charge of energy, pushed the boundaries in a speedy solo so technically sound and creative that it made me tense. What dexterity.

Peter looked over at me, smiled, and mouthed, “Coulda been you.” I had all I could do to hold back a guffaw and fall off my seat, which I was close to doing anyway.

Del Nero is a master at the bass. His solos were mesmerizing. I spoke to him at the break, stupidly asking him if they rehearsed.

With a curl of his lip, “Noooo. We’ve been doing this for years.”

Oh my goodness.

Quite a night in Bristol. Quite a night anywhere.